Heretic
by Emo Fox
Summary: "In the war-torn future of the 41st millennium, the Inquisition fights a secret war against the darkest enemies of mankind - the alien, the heretic, and the daemon." - Dan Abnett This is the story of Inquisitor Sherlock Holmes, his Apothecary John Watson, and the few trusted associates under his employ.
1. Broken

Author's Notice: Hello! I've decided to pair up my two favorite things! I hope everything moves along rather smoothly. I'd like to tell you right now I'm not a 40k history buff, and a lot of the galaxies/planets/basically all the places they go, are made up by me, so please be gentle, there. Also, I'm not completely familiar with a lot of the wars, and obviously the one Watson was in is not anything in the history books. Some classes may also be made up. I've just based things loosely in the 40k universe, so please don't run over everything with a fine toothed comb.

Also, just so you are aware, most the time the characters will be referred to by their last name(unless of course, the characters are speaking to each other). MOST the time. Sometimes their first name will also be used, but it's mostly to keep it a bit more military. Chapters may jump characters, you may follow John one chapter and then Sherlock the next, or even a side character such as Sally or Anderson.

YES this is going to be a romantic story; but it's also full of drama, adventure, and action.

This is going to be a long, long story. I'm thinking of doing a prequel for both John and Sherlock separately. Their starts. There is a planned sequel for this fiction, once it is completed as well, if anyone is even interested in it. Updates will hopefully be rather regular, so please enjoy the show!

(Again, forgive any discrepancies in timeline; and if things really bother you a lot, feel free to leave a comment over what I missed. Also, this story is not Beta'd or Brit Picked.)

*Crown: Form of currency

*Narthecium: Standard issue medical supply bag. Has all the high-tech gadgets a field operative needs.

*I just got it brought to my attention John couldn't be a space marine. Thank you so much for bringing that to my attention. However, I really loved the Apothecary class, and it bums me out if I have to change it. /UGH, so I think I'm going to look over it, which I know now makes it a plot hole I suppose. But, I really love the idea of John as a space marine. I'm sorry? I might change it later though, thinking about it. AGAIN, thank you for bringing that to my attention.

"Heretic"

'Chapter One - Broken'

_"John Watson: Apothecary Space Marine"_

_"Yours is to serve, unto the last drop of your blood, that your brothers might live to fight on. Watch over them, heal them, offer up your very life should it extend theirs but a moment, and by your sacrifice the enemy be slain. And when the time comes that you must fullfill your most solemn oath, speak clearly, speak proudly, speed the bolt that brings his end and send him joyous to the Emperor's side. Then do your duty, take which is due, and know your mission is done." - Extract from the Apocrypha of Eons, Verse V, Chapter L (M40 Redaction)_

_Local Winter, Ordna Metropolis, Silva Primarus, 297.M41_

John Watson, a military field medic was invalided back to his primary sector; where his family had long since moved off planet. He had fought valiantly alongside his brothers and sisters in battle; healing the wounded and comforting the dying. He had taken a heavy bolt to the shoulder; his armor had taken most the damage, but the soft tissue beneath had still been speared through and left him at the mercy of the God Emperor. His comrades had pulled him to safety in time, but he was useless to them.

It had taken a little over four months to get his arm working, to get the muscles set proper, to get his fingers to coordinate. That shoulder wound had mucked up that whole side of his body, his leg had been damaged(all in his head, the medicae that treated him had said). He relied on a cane now to get around, limping heavily from here to there, relatively useless.

Watson was old and broken; or at least, that's definitely how he felt. He was no longer an asset to the war; he was merely just another crippled civilian.

Watson was left renting a small flat in the outskirts of the once great metropolis. The planet hadn't been doing well; the trade routes had been re-routed outside of this galaxy due to the volatile dying star the few planets here still orbited. It was a primary reason many of the families that had the funds, took the quickest route off-world. But, this was Watson's home, this was where he grew up, and where it looked nothing like he remembered ninety years before, it was definitely where he decided he needed to be.

Not a battlefield, but something close to it, with the poverty and the disease that spread like wild fire in these close-knit communities. Drugs were the quickest and easiest trade to get into, and a lot of the youth got their selves hooked in with the wrong crowd. Legitimate hospitals were expensive, not to mention completely packed; and if you didn't have the proper funds, or the right credentials, there wasn't any admission.

There wasn't any familiar faces left here; but the one good thing about this planet(if you'd call it a good thing) was that it was primarily human. Very few alien races lived amongst them, and where Watson wasn't a racist by any means-seeing familiar human faces, was something that became a luxury up in battle. So, he savored it where he could, helping his own people gave him a sense of pride and duty. He desired to make a difference, and where the hospitals were not likely to staff a discharged _cripple_(his hands were useless, shaking like he had palsy, what sort of surgeon could he be?), he opened up his own practice. Not officially, of course not, but in his small flat he began to see patients. Drug-addled youth, single parents, poverty-stricken families with not even a crown* to their name. He allowed clients to keep a credit line, and by doing so, he got the attention of the underground.

Not only were children, teens, and poor families coming to him-but now he saw his fair share of knife wounds and acid burns, all manner of gruesome injury befitting the underground. The hired muscle and the loaded guns, all seeking his help to be patched back bright and new. Watson barely had the material to keep up this grand client base, but he never turned anyone away, everyone was welcome; and everyone in their gratitude, could be sure to keep his secret.

After all, operating without an official license was a high crime. Practicing medical arts without the proper permits, without even the proper building to do it in, he could be branded worse than a criminal. Not to mention most his clients were probably in something a little darker than _shady _and God Emperor forbid, he became branded as a heretic for helping them.

The consequences didn't bother Watson(and if he were to admit, he got a perverse thrill from it). No, he wasn't trying to overthrow the golden throne with his medical knowledge. He was just trying to do his _job_, what he had been trained to do. Be the best damn medicae there was and help his fellow man. If John could no longer do it under the shine of the Emperor's light, then he'd do it in the shadow of it. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. He was doing good work here.

At least, that was what he told himself.

It was well past midnight and finally his little flat was his again and not stuffed to the brim with ailing people. There was a stink that would never quite leave; of burned flesh, dried blood, and just the general unwashed smell of the people he treated. But, he got used to it, the work was rewarding, and it was worth it. He cleaned his hands in the sink, shutting off the taps and tossed the soiled rag on the counter. His body ached all over, his eyes burned from focusing so hard on getting stitches through torn skin. He'd be up and ready again, come four hours, knowing there would be a new batch of patients, as well as some following up for further treatment. He had made it all the way to his room, about to shed his dirty work clothes and get into something more comfortable when the bell rang.

His brow furrowed, but a promise was a promise, he'd treat anyone, at any hour, if they legitimately needed emergency care. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead to try and stave off the looming migraine as he walked his way back into the sitting room. The bell rang again, urgent. "Coming!" Watson called, opening the door wide; he was startled into silence at who was staring back at him. "Mike?"

Mike Stamford, a childhood friend, one he hadn't seen since long before he enlisted, stood on the stoop of his flat. Of course, he had aged, as everyone did. He had the body of a scholar, round and soft, had never fought a day in his life. He was wearing loose fitting clothes, and a heavy black cloak over his shoulders that made him look twice as big as he was. For all his girth, he was a short man, shorter than John by just a few inches. He always had a rather jovial face, but now it was tense, that pinch between his brows always a sign there was something weighty on his mind. "John, lovely to see you. Heard when you got shipped back, terrible stuff, that." He said, as personably as ever, but instinctively Watson knew this was not the topic of conversation Stamford wanted to probe.

"Indeed," He admitted, standing awkwardly, leaning hard on his cane; fatigue having robbed him of his manners before he gestured wide, "Come in, have a seat, want something to drink?" He said in a rush, because he knew there was something unsettling here. Stamford last worked at the ministry, or so he had been told. Some distant planet John couldn't even remember the name of, rich work over there, just rich in general. Where a lot of the precious documents of the Imperium were held, the history of the ages kept under tight lock and key in the ministry Stamford had been last rumored to be employed at.

So, why was he here? This far away, in this putrid place?

The ex-space marine did not have a good feeling. His gut instinct had never been wrong before.

"I'm fine, thank you." Stamford said, running a hand nervously through his auburn hair. He had shut the door behind him, and Watson(having been on his way to the kitchen) turned back around to meet the man in the sitting room. From the waning light, he could see the unnatural shine to Mike's eyes. Where they looked relatively normal, Watson was aware now they were not organic. He had implants, but that wasn't a surprise. Stamford's vision was bad, from a young age, he worked for a while with primitive glasses, but all that time reading must have corroded what was left of his eye sight. Not unusual, augments were rather common among the richer classes, they could afford it.

"I know you didn't travel all the way here just to see how I've been getting on." He said, deciding to address the tension.

Stamford smiled sadly, "I've been found out."

"You were never a good liar."

He shook his head, "You're a very good Apothecary, John."

"I'm not the best." John said, because it was true. He might be the best these underclass had, but he was definitely not the _best_, and definitely not even the most decent someone could buy, given how well off Mike must be. Watson was not envious of the rich, he did not value money in such a way, but it was the life blood of the Imperium(that, and lives themselves).

"You are exactly what we need." Stamford said, glancing nervously at Watson, then away again.

"We?"

"My boss," He wrung his hands, "I've told him about you, about what you can do. We don't have a lot of options, we need the utmost discretion."

John eyed him warily, "What is this about, Mike? Your boss? I thought you were a ledger keeper."

"I am," Mike protested, "I was, well, I am, just in a different way."

"You have to start making sense. You know I'll help you, with whatever you need. You don't look injured, so who is it? What happened?" Watson asked, still unsure, unable to understand why Stamford would skip galaxies just to sniff him out. "How did-how did you find out about my practice here?" He asked before he could stop himself.

"I asked around," Stamford said, "Really, I didn't, I didn't know before. I knew you were discharged, and I knew you were sent back here, to your home world. But, I didn't know where you were staying. You weren't listed on the residency register, but that's common here, aliases and such." He said gently, "I got directed into this neighborhood when I asked for an off the book doctor, the street children directed me here."

Watson swore, "Throne, it's not supposed to be that easy."

"Don't worry, John." Stamford said, "Who would ask about it, if they didn't know about it? I don't look like an authority figure, so they had enough trust to think I needed legitimate help."

At least that was one good thing. Those in power liked to flaunt their power, and undercover missions to sniff out a crippled doctor was not something Watson should be worried about. If he was going to get found, he'd have prior notice from his connections in the city. Besides, seemed like he had other problems.

"Okay, okay," He conceded, "Answer my questions. Who is it? Why?"

"I'll tell you, as much as I can, once we get going," He said, sincere, "Would you please come with me?"

Watson snorted, derisive. Where Mike was a man to be trusted, he wasn't sure what would be waiting when he walked out the door. "How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"When can I be expected back here, I have patients, I can't just go off world."

Stamford sighed, "You must, I need you to come with me. I don't know for how long, but long enough for you to bring anything of importance."

"Just like that?"

He blinked, "Like what?"

"You come here and spirit me away for some unknown cause? Don't I get a say about it?"

Stamford frowned, "I'm sorry, John, I am. Please just come with me; you won't want to say no to this."

Watson was quiet, weighing his options. He could always refuse; but there was something here, bad or otherwise, and he had never backed down from danger before. Why should he start now? "Give me a minute."

Stamford sat down, and Watson left the room.

He retreated to his bedroom, began to gather his clothes. He rifled through his drawers, trying to remember what exactly he needed to bring, what was important, what did he not want to be stolen in his absence? Watson stripped out of his soiled clothes and tugged on a fresh pair of pants and heavy trousers. He laced up his combat boots, and tugged on a soft-knit grey shirt. Watson then yanked down a few more outfits from his closet and stuffed them into the suit case that lay open on his bed. He tucked a few picts of his family in the case, among his clothing. He reached for his bolt pistol that was on the night table, the heavy weight comfortable and familiar in his hand. He tucked it behind his back, in the waist band of his heavy trousers, sure to smooth out his shirt over the bulge to conceal it. He doubted the pistol would do much good, but it did make him feel better. He then picked up his recently stocked Narthecium*. Whatever other odds and ends he deemed useful to the cause he tucked in his suit case, before he reached for his heavy pea-green coat and shrugged into it.

He walked back into the living room, carrying the two bags by the handles in opposite hands, his expression hard. "Lead on." He said, none-too-pleased, but it didn't seem the time to argue. Besides, Stamford was not in charge, he'd take this up with his boss, whoever that turned out to be. Hopefully he wasn't falling prey to some crime syndicate, though it was unlikely a crime lord would need a _scholar_ such as Mike Stamford, the man allergic to peanuts and whom had a fear of just about everything.

Stamford got up, beaming happily at his long-time friend now that it appeared everything was in order. He held the door for Watson and then shut the door behind them. "Need to lock up?" He asked, since Watson had walked out onto the street.

"No need," John said easily, "If they want to get in, they will, locks don't really matter here." Out of respect for his profession, from helping the bulk of the public in this ghetto, Watson had the luxury of not having to worry about such things. Now though, skipping planet on his patients, he was sure he wouldn't have much of a flat to return to. He'd build back up, life would continue on, as it always would. He was hardly bothered; more perturbed by his lack of knowledge on what was going to happen now. Even in heavy combat zones, he was privy to the _plan_ and now he was completely in the dark, being led by a man clearly not suited for leadership; the way his hands fluttered for something to do, trying to fall in step behind Watson even though he had no idea where they were going.

"It's just a short ride. We're going to the mooring station. Our ship is docked there."

"How short?" He asked.

"We'll have to take the train, a few hours out." Everything was a few hours out from the city, the decrepit buildings set in the heart of the decaying residual caps of civilization around them. The tall buildings were stained black, looking like burned trees among a sea of cream-colored mushrooms(the more livable parts of the city). The train still ran in and out, though there were always delays, debris often got caught up on the tracks.

"Who is my patient?" Watson prompted.

Mike glanced sideways at him, before he seemed to decide he could at least tell him that much. "Gregory Lestrade," He spoke clear, but Watson had no recognition of the name, "He suffered a good blow in a recent skirmish. Something is in his blood; it's keeping him from recovering. We do have a medical professional aboard, but this isn't her field of study."

"Like what? Poison is it, or radiation maybe?"

"Poison," Stamford shrugged, "That's the best guess we have, it's destroying the blood cells anyway, at least from what I've been told. Ran enough tests, but he's getting worse, and we need results, John."

Watson breathed hard through his nose a moment, thinking, processing. "You won't go to the hospital though, his life not worth enough, is it?"

"It's of the upmost importance our time here is not known. Our presence at all, is not known." He said solemnly. "You'll be able to patch him, won't you?"

Watson barked a laugh, "You're asking me to become a miracle. How long has he been poisoned?" He decided to say poison, because he didn't know what it was yet, didn't have the body in front of him and it seemed Stamford's knowledge was grossly limited. They had made it to the train station, nearly one in the morning, the place was mainly deserted. Only a few homeless patrons were asleep on the pews in the lobby, a single ticket agent behind the cage at the end of the hall.

Stamford requested the route tickets, handed one to Watson, then proceeded to their gate. "Few hours. We didn't know he was poisoned at first, it just recently got brought to our attention."

"Great job your medical professional is doing."

Stamford winced, "She doesn't normally deal with living bodies."

"Right." Watson snorted, stepping up the stairs into their train car. He set his bags carefully next to his feet, not trusting them to storage. He rested his cane up against the side wall, his attention on Stamford. "Well, she might be in her field then, won't she? In a few hours more, if the poor bastard lives that long."

"Our other medicae," Stamford paused, running a hand through his hair, "They died recently, in the same skirmish. Luckily we only had those two casualties, everything else was minor."

Watson's brow furrowed in thought, "What happened?"

"I can't-"

"Not at liberty," Watson sighed, "Right. Who is the person in charge?"

"You'll meet him. Once you tend to Greg, he'll come to you."

"Anything I should know?"

Stamford smiled a melancholy smile, "Loads."

Watson laughed, because what else could he do? He'd been sent into hostile battlefields with less than a compass; he could weather this storm, like all the others before it. His hands were steady when he set them on his knees, his posture straight, and his shoulders square. He would face this challenge head on, and hope he could at least save this Gregory Lestrade.


	2. Plans Awry

Author's Notice: Thank you for joining me on this second chapter of this long, long space epic. In this chapter you meet Sherlock Holmes, and his rag tag team. Timeline for this chapter is set earlier in the day, long before Mike goes to see John. Just so everyone is on board, in case somehow the timeline gets a little wonky. Also, I apologize for Anderson's lack of significant lines. He was giving me the most trouble this chapter. Next time Sherlock and John meet! You'll also get more insight on what exactly happened to Greg, so sorry for the washed out fight scene, but there will be plenty more. Anyway, please enjoy!

'Chapter Two - Plans Awry'

"Sherlock Holmes - Ordos Hereticus Inquisitor"

_"A heretic may see the truth and seek redemption. He may be forgiven his past and be absolved in death. A traitor can never be forgiven. A traitor can never find peace in this world or the next. There is nothing as wretched or as hated in all the world as a traitor." - Anonymous_

_Atmosphere, Mooring Dock C19, Gordon Majorus, 297.M41_

They had chased a whisper of a name this far into the reach of the one of the most hostile planetary sectors. Little to go on, Sherlock had to take whatever lead he could; this was becoming part of something much bigger than initially thought. They had been chasing ghosts, up until this point, and he would not lose this trail now that he actually had a solid whiff of what he was hunting.

The plan was simple; moor on Gordon and dispatch his agents. They were to strike a deal with this _Herron Smith_, infiltrate his inner structure and make way for Sherlock to probe inside.

Simple.

Of course, more often than not, things didn't play out as simply as they appeared. Herron Smith was not a big player in the smuggling rings, but he did have connections. His name was the only one that Holmes had been able to track down as a viable source thus far.

They needed to interrogate Smith; and unfortunately to draw attention to his authority would cause everything he had worked for to scatter in the wind. No, this required delicacy, he could not go storming in with his shield raised. If he was on the right track(which he positively was); this was just the first stepping stone to something far worse than backwater black market trading.

Holmes remained at the head of the great black star ship; looking down at the crystal blue planet below where the docking cord was tethered. His reflection stared back at him in the great domed wind screen, his mouth drawn into a pensive line. His employees had set foot on the planet about an hour before; making their way to the target.

They were to split into two teams; but they had not yet got into position, which meant they were not yet at the target point.

Sherlock Holmes, Ordos Hereticus Inquisitor of the Imperial Inquisition. He is tasked with the great responsibility of protecting mankind from itself. Holmes, cynical in nature, had an eye for heresy. He had already built quite the reputation for himself, having chased down and eliminated enough heretics, rumors had spread.

He was aware of some of the rumors; some feared he was getting himself in too deep, too quickly, that he would become susceptible to the very evil he was trying to prevent. His ability to _see _what others could not unnerved even the most stoic of his brethren. Then again, this branch of the Inquisition was not looked upon favorably.

The Inquisitors of the Ordos Hereticus are viewed as a more cynical, unforgiving, and _sinister _lot mainly because they do focus on the taint in their fellow man. They were known to be paranoid, and some thought they were too quick to judge and even quicker to administer punishment. Some thought they could see the darkness in anyone, no matter how small it was; people feared them, plain and simple.

When an Inquisitor of the Ordos Hereticus landed on a planet, they commanded the full attention of anyone that laid eyes on them. Most were in awe, most were afraid, because no one knew where the gaze of the Inquisitor may fall, none of them were safe.

Holmes did not care for rumors, and he especially didn't need to be in the good graces of his

colleagues to do _his work_, so such ill favors were ignored. He ran his operations smoothly, and had minimal difficulties thus far.

This current operation, however, it was giving him pause. He knew for a fact that this trader Smith was dealing in things bigger than himself. He knew for a fact that they were not merely smuggling drugs or any such petty nonsense. He knew they were smuggling _humans_ and not just any humans, no, they were smuggling illegal psykers.

From the psykers, Holmes was almost positive there was a higher power involved. They were leading to something, possibly something daemonic. That of course, was not his branch of study, but if his quarry led there all the same, he would pursue.

Smith was not a direct link to the smuggling, but he had the connections, the proper lines that tied to such a trade. Smith might be one of the lowest rungs in this criminal ladder, but it was a start, and currently, it was the only positive name Holmes had. With this sort of cargo, no one could be too careful; and Smith was the only one to make the slightest of mistakes that led Holmes right to his home world.

However, he would not strike without all the facts. He needed to get in deep and fish out exactly what was going on behind the scenes. Sure, he could storm in there, kill Smith and his band of misfits, but it would not lead him to where he needed to be. If they were so reckless, he'd lose the trail entirely to something that could very well poison mankind. His job was to prevent such a thing from occurring, and prevent it, he would.

_Witch Hunter._

Holmes had been called, more than once. He did not simply hunt _witches(illegal psykers)_ he hunted the black limbs of the Imperium in every human form; to cut the fetid cancerous growth off the bulk of mankind before it poisoned the entire body of the Imperium. He was an agent of the highest power, and he did truly have the best interests of his fellow man at heart.

_Local Spring, Orvil Sub-Sector Q, Gordon Majorus, 297.41_

"I'm not liking how this feels." Donovan murmured, a compact, imposing woman, she was striding at the left of the tallest man in their group of four. She was sheathed in a cream body glove that was a stark contrast to her soft, dark colored skin. She had no visible weapons, her heavy combat boots hitting the ground with force as her amber eyes(organic and true) surveyed the area in vigilant sweeps.

"You're just winding yourself up." Lestrade said gently, softening the mood. The tall man was wearing heavy black body armor; but it wasn't uncommon to see such a person, especially in these conditions. He seemed to be armed to the teeth; but Lestrade was always one to come prepared(most his weapons were concealed, aside from the heavy las canon on his back). "Try and relax."

"Yes, mamzel, calm yourself." Came the gentle voice of the medicae, a short man with blonde hair and fair skin. His body was hidden under a red leather body glove, tools of his trade hung from his hips in heavy pocket bags. A starch white heavy coat was hung on his slight frame, the hem of it falling just past his knees; the black buttons on the fabric polished so bright they looked like small inky mirrors. He may look the frail medical officer he had been trained to be, but he was also a soldier, and he was a vital asset to this group. They were striding into hostile territory, it was proper to come prepared for the worst.

Holmes had almost kept Garrison up on the ship; had said it was hardly necessary for four of his best officers to infiltrate Smith's gang. Garrison had tentatively offered a counter argument, to travel in pairs was always safer than setting out alone. If he were on planet, if anything terrible happened to the small band, he could patch them up smartly and get them back to the safety of the ship.

To be honest, Garrison missed the battlefield, it had been too long since he saw a bit of a scuffle and he wanted to feel part of the group. Initially the only person he knew from Sherlock's team had been Anderson, and from Anderson he met Lestrade who eventually led him to the Inquisitor. Holmes had refused accepting another medicae officer up until that point; he had put his trust in Hooper, though she was primarily a scientist. Her knowledge of the human body was amazing, of course it was, but she studied the _dead. _She was adept with working with implants, machines, augments, anything that could adhere and enhance a human body, but she was not adept at _saving _living tissue, or even healing it. Holmes thought her adequate enough, but he was merely arrogant to assume his employees would not get gravely injured on the job.

All that aside, Garrison managed to convince Holmes of his worth, and therefore was allowed a permanent place on his vessel. Going on fifteen years now, that he had been under Holmes' employ.

Donovan scowled, she knew what she felt, and it wasn't anything good.

Anderson, a man with a long vulpine-looking face, glanced to Donovan a moment before he said in a nasally tone, "Told us it'd be quick," Knowing full well he was talking about the Inquisitor, they all knew it. "Doubt it."

Lestrade frowned, "Never been wrong before."

That wasn't entirely true. Holmes didn't have as much experience as one might expect, but Lestrade had seen him do great things. He had been the first under his employ, and persuaded his colleagues to join up when the time was right. He could be a little reckless, sure, but the job got done, and people were better off for it. They were doing the God Emperor's work.

"Not yet." Anderson agreed; ever the pessimist. But, he was blind to Holmes' abilities; the bulk of them anyway. He was a blank, naturally inept to psychic persuasion. His mind could not probe, and in turn, not be probed. His presence acted as a barrier. If anything untoward was sniffing the air at their approach, Anderson's blunt mind would keep them invisible unless the probing psychic knew what to look for.

The down side of a blank; they caused psychics to feel sick. Like something was holding their brain; fingers digging into the mushy grey matter and making it _itch_. Most likely Donovan was just on edge because of Anderson; at least, Lestrade hoped as much.

Donovan was the only other psyker on their ship; but Holmes could infiltrate any of their minds, if he so chose(aside from Anderson). Donovan could also speak directly to any of them through her mind, with the exception of the blank, and in turn communicate back with Holmes. When Holmes infiltrated the minds of other non-psykers, it felt a little sharp, but not painful, but it was something definitely _felt_. It was damn weird, to hear someone else's voice in your head, but it was something Lestrade got used to. Normally Holmes didn't mentally communicate to anyone but Donovan; but the presence was still felt in all their minds. Like a warm sensation at the base of the skull, something ever present. It was comforting, in a way, to feel Holmes there.

Holmes normally liked to stride right into danger and poke his nose exactly where it(mostly) didn't belong. He didn't have the proper people skills needed to take on delicate situations, more prone to stabbing straight through formalities to get at the bare facts. His tactics worked, usually, he had the authority to back himself up. But, in situations like these, there was more to gain without flashing a badge than there would be throwing his authority around. Not to mention if Holmes had stepped on planet, it'd hardly be a secret, and everyone would have scattered. Just came with the territory, Lestrade supposed, Holmes definitely was a scary bastard.

Since Holmes was not present, Lestrade was the seasoned officer among them, and therefore, the acting leader. He was in charge of making sure their operation ran smoothly.

+Be on guard.+

Holmes' smooth baritone entered Sally's mind. Donovan snorted, "Boss said to be on point." Like they needed to be told, but she sensed the agitation in his voice. He wanted this to be over with as quickly as possible.

Donovan was Holmes' Acolyte; he had taught her to hone her psychic craft, before it had been weak and dangerous. She actually had spiked up on the radar of the Inquisition branch she now served because of it. She was due to board the black ship as a sacrifice if she couldn't combat the rigorous pit falls of her mind and get herself under control. Her ties to Lestrade led her to Holmes; she owed the man her life. Despite how wary she was of this trade, of the dangers of it all, she would follow Holmes into battle at a single word. Lestrade may have been in Holmes' employ longer; but Donovan was probably his most loyal servant(though they were all loyal).

"Alright," Lestrade started, they had walked through a rather cramped street; the buildings here were large and imposing. Not run down, but definitely not kept up to code. This slum was where they were to meet Smith, or possibly his associates first. They had hailed him, earlier on, when Holmes was sure his involvement. He was expecting to meet Donovan and Anderson, but Lestrade and Garrison were going to plant themselves nearby. Rather a simple ploy, and one he wasn't sure was going to completely work. If he was to be truthful, he believed Holmes was underestimating Smith. Holmes believed he was too minor to be of interest, merely a link to a bigger chain, and they were set to find out what that chain was connected to. "You two, head in, we'll look around here a while."

Donovan hesitated, her fierce gaze jumping from Gregory to Harris. "Right. C'mon." She gestured for Anderson to follow, and the man did.

()()()()()

Molly Hooper, scientist and resident technician was currently doing maintenance on Holmes' servo-skull. It wasn't powered down, but the anti-gravity had been de-activated and it sat in the center of the stainless steel table in the ward. She was happily tinkering away, making sure the machine parts were primed and polished to the highest grade.

Holmes' familiar was an extension of himself; crafted from a human skull and brought to life by the manufactured soul as well as the mechanical enhancements added that let this faithful soul of the Imperium do their duty despite their death. This one didn't have any weapons, it was merely a reconnaissance unit; sent forth to go into difficult places and obtain information they could not gather otherwise. Though, Hooper had never seen this servo-skull in any hostile environments. It was merely kept aboard with Holmes, or hovered close when the man was off ship; in times like these, it was here, in the ward with Molly, but usually only for maintenance such as this.

Hooper never asked about it, she supposed it wasn't her place.

The servo-skull was called Victor Trevor; and she assumed that had been the name of the faithful that it had been crafted from, but she didn't know for sure. She did know she heard Sherlock talk to it sometimes.

Not her place.

She had to constantly remind herself; because she was curious by nature, and she had an interest in Holmes and everything he did. He was an Inquisitor, of course he was interesting, he was also her boss, and definitely not her friend. Holmes didn't have friends, he had employees, and she should be sure to remember that.

Hooper couldn't help it though, she cared about Holmes, and sometimes she thought he cared about all of them too. In his own way. Though, she had never heard him use such tones as he did when he talked to this servo-skull.

"All done." She smiled, and activated the anti-gravity to let the thing whirl up into the air. The eerie blue soul light emanated from its core; reflected strongly in the artificial eyes. It hovered there, over the table, and she busied herself with putting away her tools, cleaning up the workspace. She kept her ward perfectly clean and organized; she did share the space with Garrison, but they kept true to their own sides. This ship, it wasn't a big one, not by usual standards, but it had enough space for the small crew. Hooper thought it was rather homey, to be honest.

+Molly, come to the bridge.+

Hooper started to the mental nudge, she smoothed down her clothes fretfully and teased at her hair that was drawn back in a tight ponytail. She was acting like such a fool; she really needed to stop getting so worked up, how long had she been here? How many years, and she wasn't over this worthless crush of hers?

"I'm hopeless." She breathed, realizing a little too late that whatever she said aloud could then be heard and sent right into Sherlock's mind due to his servo-skull. She cursed, deciding she had done enough damage as it was, and fled the space; the whirring skull staying close behind her as she sought out the Inquisitor.

Hooper walked down the slim hallways; passed the closed doors that led to each of their small, boxy rooms, getting up on the main deck and finding her way to the bridge. It was on the opposite side of the ward, nearly on the complete other side. She made it in record time, and tried to catch her breath without seeming so obvious. "Yes, Holmes?"

Holmes turned to her the moment she was in range, the hovering skull moving across the space to hover motionlessly near his left shoulder. His silver-blue eyes nearly matched the ethereal glow of the familiar, "What do you know about nullifying a psyker?"

"Nullifying?" Hooper quipped, "How do you mean? Death, or just using a dampener?"

Holmes frowned, his hands tucked behind his back, his back straight. He was quite a few inches taller than her, even at this distance she had to tilt her head up to keep eye contact. "Dampeners."

"Well," She paused, "They do work, on any level of psyker. Depending on the grade of the dampener of course, but they are sort of, uh, absolute."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise, "Right."

"Can I ask what this is all about?" Hooper piped up, "I mean, I don't know a lot about the mission at hand, but is there something you need? From me?"

Holmes was quiet a long moment before he spoke, "I'll need you to research all you can about dampeners. Go ask Mike for his knowledge as well, I'll need you to create something."

"Create? We could always just acquire whatever you needed."

"We could," Holmes conceded, "But it wouldn't be exactly what _I_ needed. I'm going to purchase a few different grades, and I'm going to have you modify them. From there, I'm confident you'll be able to create your own. Am I wrong?"

Hooper was quick to respond, "No, of course not, I could make whatever you need."

"Good." He smiled, though it didn't look so sincere, "I'll come to you when I have further information." Holmes turned back to the wind screen.

Hooper stayed a moment too long, giving one last glance to the Inquisitor before she fled the bridge; intent on finding Stamford and hoping he had further knowledge on what their employer needed. It was definitely an unusual request; but it was not the strangest thing that had been asked of her. To be honest, she was most in her element when working with machines, so this was something she could definitely do. Besides, it was her moment to shine, and she would not let Holmes down.

()()()()()()

Donovan entered the building first, with Anderson falling close behind her. The door had squealed on the hinges, and didn't quite close once they stepped in. The lower floor was completely empty; peeling paint and aging plaster, they stepped over various debris, furniture like carcasses of a time since past. They continued in tense silence, heading further and further up the gutted building, the stairs seemed to barely hold their weight. The stench of decay was heavy and thick, every breath felt like inhaling wood smoke.

She couldn't hear Anderson's thoughts, but she knew him enough to know there was a lot of things he wasn't saying. It was exactly what she was thinking, _Like hell this isn't a trap. _

Finally they reached the top floor(or the furthest floor they could actually walk to); at the end of a long hallway there was a variety of doors. They were all closed, only one had a polished brass handle, the others were oxidized green with age.

Donovan glanced to her companion, he nodded slightly in response to her unspoken question and she continued forward. She hesitated by the door, unsure protocol at this point, but decided to just twist the handle and enter the room. After all, they were expected. The door swung slow, the space that greeted them was clean, compact, the only furniture was a long black desk and four matching chairs. The hanging bulb illuminated the space, drooped down from the center of the ceiling like a great teardrop. Inside the room were two men, one she recognized as Herron Smith, the other was a mystery to her. Some no-name muscle she was certain, from the bulk of him, not to mention the acid burns on his face. Gang rituals, she'd seen worse. The heavy hammer he wielded was her primary concern.

"Welcome." Smith spoke, his tone clear and resonating like the chime of a bell. He didn't stand up, remained reclined, while his muscle loomed close to his left.

"We had some questions." Donovan said, approaching the table, sitting when Smith gestured for them to take a seat.

"Of course," Smith smiled, but it wasn't warm. His flinty gaze fell on Anderson a moment before they darted back to Donovan. "But first, I must insist you bring in your other two fellows."

Anderson frowned, but Donovan wasn't as obvious. She remained collected, didn't let the surprise show on her face. "Always a good thing, to be prepared." She said smoothly.

"I understand completely, never do know these days, whom is being completely legitimate." Smith said.

Donovan glanced to Anderson, she couldn't focus her mind and bring attention to it by calling out to Garrison and Lestrade. At the moment it was her greatest asset, that was to assume, Smith didn't know about her abilities already. They had approached under aliases, with forged papers, there was nothing to link back to whom they truly were. But, it wasn't an impossible task, she just didn't expect Smith to be so thorough. Perhaps they had been wrong. After all, they were smuggling witches, according to Holmes. Even the smallest criminal in this affair had to be something worthy of fear. Or, completely ignorant to the smuggling all together.

Anderson got up from his seat, not looking pleased about it; he exited the room and left Donovan alone.

"Now then, did you want to wait for them to return, or would you like me to go over the details with you now?" Smith asked, "You did say you were in charge, correct?"

"Correct." Donovan conceded, "We can discuss matters now."

"You wanted to provide transport?"

"Yes," Donovan said, "I have a decent sized star ship, and if the pay is right, I don't mind harboring goods. For a fee, of course."

"Of course," Smith grinned, but there was something about his expression that didn't sit quite right. "We may not be interested in transport at the moment. Were you looking to buy?"

"I was," Donovan said, keeping her eyes ahead, though she wanted to focus on the other man in the room. He seemed like the biggest threat, always in her peripheral. "Depends on what you have, and at what price."

"You know what I supply," He said dismissively, "So make me an offer."

"It's not all that you supply." Donovan said, deciding to probe the subject, because that was why they were here. To get information. "I'm interested in what wasn't on the register."

Smith's expression didn't change, "I'm not sure what you mean." He said in his polite, airy tone, "I've provided to you exactly what I supply. I met with you with the intent to sell the goods I have disclosed to you prior."

"Deals change."

"They do," He whetted his lips, "But unfortunately I do not have anything except what's on the register."

"That's a shame," Donovan said, "I was led to believe otherwise."

"By whom?"

"Dropping names can get you killed."

Smith laughed, "Very true." He seemed to assess her a long moment, taking in her posture, her expression, "I have not lied to you. I only supply what you know." He said evenly, "However, I do know of other traders, whom might have what you're interested in."

"What do you believe I'm interested in?"

Smith shrugged, "I don't know for sure, not until you tell me."

Just then the door opened and Donovan's crewmen entered the small space.

Lestrade stood off to the side, in front of the Hammer in the room, Anderson walked up to take his seat back next to Donovan, and Garrison stood in the opposing corner. Once everyone was settled, Donovan spoke again, "I've heard you know who's shipping _live _cargo."

Smith narrowed his eyes, glancing over her to assess the other people in the room. It was clear what she said was poking at a nerve, "I would be interested to know where you're getting your information." He said easily, "We don't deal in the circus trade, we don't have any live specimens."

"Not talking about aliens." Donovan said pointedly, feeling the tension rising.

"You wanted to provide transport, but you are also interested in buying something off the books. You're to tell me you've come for the live cargo?" Smith said, finally addressing the situation, "You're not the usual type."

"What is the usual type then?"

"Not my business to say." Smith said, scooting his chair back and standing to his full height. "Wait here, would you? I'll see what I can do." He turned his back on them and walked towards the back wall, there he ran his hand over the smooth plaster; fingers hooked in a hidden depression and a door was revealed. He walked through the door, and once it shut it blended right back with the wall again.

They couldn't discuss anything with the stranger in the room.

Donovan wasn't sure why Holmes hadn't contacted her again, or any of them for that matter. A glance at Lestrade told her he was just as in the dark. This tiny room, with these strange people and that hidden door. It didn't sit right. None of it did. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good.

The hidden door opened again, this time it wasn't just Smith that stepped through it. He entered the room with a group of four; all tall muscled men with varying hand weapons. The addition made the space even smaller. Donovan wanted to get out of her chair, but she remained sitting despite her instincts.

"I just have one more question," Smith said, walking forward and planting his gloved hands on the smooth top of the table. He leveled his gaze with Donovan, "Why didn't the Inquisitor accompany you?"

They barely had time to react before the hired men drove themselves forward.

()()()()()()

It had been bloody, and it hadn't been quick.

It had taken ages to get back up to their ship, and once they did, it had been too late for Garrison.

In such tight knit quarters; those heavy hand weapons were brutal. Smith of course had fled the scene the moment the scuffle started, slipping beyond that hidden door. They couldn't pursue, Lestrade had suffered a gnarly shoulder wound and Garrison had been dying. Anderson and herself had suffered minor wounds, easily patchable.

Once aboard Garrison had been urged off to the ward; Lestrade had carried him in. He was unconscious by time they got back aboard, and it didn't look good. Hooper ended up doing all she could, but the bleeding had been too extensive and that was eventually his cause of death. Holmes had stood silent in the corner of the room while Hooper had worked; not saying a word, his servo-skull hovering near his shoulder like a specter of death.

They all wanted to say something, but none of them did.

As the sheet was drawn over Garrison's pale face; it felt like someone crushed all the air out of the room.

Hooper, whom had worked most intimately with the man, suffered the worst of it. Once Holmes left the room, she didn't try and stop the tears that escaped; apologizing and sniffling pitifully. Donovan knew it'd be hard for her, to see the opposite side of the medical bay and know this man would never be standing across from her again.

It had been a pointless casualty.

The entire operation; Smith had already known. How had Holmes missed it? How did he think they weren't stepping into a trap?

Donovan felt betrayed, and that wasn't her place.

+Calm yourself. We will regroup.+

Donovan turned from the room, not seeking out the Inquisitor, instead going to her room. She stripped herself of her bloodied clothes, of her weapons(having been hidden in her boots, and the folded sleeves of her body glove), intent on getting a shower and making herself relax. There was nothing more to be done, they had to stay positive, and they had to keep looking forward.

Later that night Lestrade would collapse on the bridge.


End file.
